Chapter 7 - King Cinderella: Two Hearts Entwined in Sin

Translator's Note:

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Richard Chalon Aschenptel, second prince of the Kingdom of Aschenptel, returned to the palace with his beloved horse, Keith, and his ten loyal hounds.

 

As someone both visually impaired and not yet of age, Chalon had few official duties. His time was spent indulging his passion for crystal carving and collecting medicinal herbs—though the latter was less a pastime than a self-appointed calling.

 

Though not a profession in the formal sense, Chalon's keen sense of smell and acute hearing—compensating for his weakened eyesight—allowed him to communicate with animals and birds, and more importantly, locate rare herbs that even scholars and apothecaries struggled to find.

 

He would often return with pouches full of herbs that took others over a week to gather—and be greeted with tears of gratitude and lavish praise.

 

For his crystal carvings, Chalon used colored crystals, as clear quartz was too difficult for him to distinguish. With only the guidance of touch, he sculpted animals—small horses, dogs, rabbits—all with remarkable precision.

 

Among his works, a life-sized bust of the late queen, carved from amethyst, was especially praised and had earned a place of honor in the royal audience chamber, much loved by the king.

 

Chalon knew that, as a prince, he contributed little to the workings of the kingdom. But what he could do—bringing joy, offering help—gave him purpose and quiet happiness.

 

"Welcome back, Your Highness Chalon. Were you able to find the knightleaf?"

 

As he stepped into the outer colonnade after visiting the stables and kennels, one of the royal apothecaries called out to him.

 

All apothecaries wore the same uniform, making it difficult to distinguish them by shape—Chalon relied solely on their voices.

 

In the right light, he could perceive colors and vague outlines, but he couldn't discern facial features or expressions. Instead, he interpreted people's feelings through the faint movement of their brows or lips.

 

"I'm sorry. I wasn't able to find it today."

 

Chalon had chosen this path not simply because he was born to the king and queen, but because he wanted to do something meaningful on his own—without being a burden to others. That journey had led him to this role: seeker of rare medicinal herbs. But today's efforts had yielded nothing.

 

He could hear the disappointment in the apothecary's sigh, and guilt welled up inside him.

 

At first, Chalon's expeditions were accompanied by heavily armed guards. But over the years, the king had grown accustomed to his outings. Now, he was allowed to go alone—so long as he was accompanied by Keith and his ten powerful dogs with their sharp fangs.

 

It was just what Chalon had wished for. He wanted to rely on no one. But without results, his work would be seen as mere play.

 

"What a shame. Freshness is key with knightleaf—I had already begun preparing the decoction."

 

"Oh, I see… I'm terribly sorry for wasting it."

 

Chalon bowed his head in apology, while in his mind's eye, he pictured Erald and the dark horse, Aston.

 

He had been searching for the rare herb knightleaf, without much luck, and was beginning to grow anxious as he had promised to return before sunset. It was then that a black horse, clearly in distress, came galloping toward him.

 

Chalon had sensed it immediately—My master has fallen. Please help him!—and abandoned his herb gathering. But at that moment, the horse's emotions also carried a trace of resentment toward its rider, and Chalon had assumed the master must be cruel, someone who used the whip with little thought.

 

He had considered stepping in and reprimanding the man, even if it meant revealing his identity. But then, he heard a voice calling the horse's name.

 

A voice desperate and pained, laced with sorrow—it pulled Chalon forward. And there, bleeding heavily, was someone whose colors and shape so closely resembled his own brother's.

 

"Hey, you there—do you know who you're speaking to?"

 

Chalon, who had been quietly murmuring apologies under his breath while listening to the apothecary's words, turned at the sudden voice echoing from beyond the columns.

 

At the same time, the middle-aged apothecary let out a startled cry.

 

"You may be incompetent," the voice continued, "but the one standing before you is our kingdom's second prince. A lowborn apothecary like you has no right to address him like a servant."

 

"C-Crown Prince! I—I beg your pardon!"

 

"If you presume to take liberties just because he shows you courtesy, and forget your place, I will have your head for treason. Consider this your one and only warning."

 

"Y-yes, Your Highness…!"

 

There was the rustling of cloth—Chalon could tell the apothecary had fallen to his knees.

 

The voice commanded him to leave, and he scurried off.

 

Chalon focused his gaze as his elder brother approached. Though they were far apart in age, he tried to make out the colors and silhouette he knew so well.

 

His brother's blond hair was the same shade as Erald's but longer, tied back neatly with a ribbon. He wore the pale violet garments permitted only to royalty—Chalon could make out the glint of gemstones, embroidery, and the shine of medals adorning his long coat.

 

Crown Prince Varius, tall and powerfully built, had the same perfume Erald wore—its refined fragrance drifting faintly on the air.

 

As he drew closer, Chalon could make out his eyes—two gleaming sapphire stones. And the slight upward tilt of his brows, darker than his hair, revealed an expression that matched his stern voice.

 

"This is what happens when you let down your guard," Varius said sharply. "At all times, you must behave in a manner befitting your rank. You owe no apologies or courtesies to commoners. You are one who is meant to be served. I'm furious—it's as if his disrespect reflects on me."

 

"I'm sorry, Brother. I believe his frustration came from trusting that I would return with the herbs as promised. Please, don't blame him."

 

"Your petty little outings are undermining our royal dignity," Varius snapped. "You should stay inside the castle and continue carving your crystals. For someone blind, wandering around outside is sheer madness. Father must be losing not only his strength but his mind. When my reign begins, you won't be setting foot outside this castle again. Prepare yourself for that."

 

"With all respect… I am safe in the forest, as long as I have my horse and hounds with me. That peace is a testament to Father's rule. He trusts in the world he's built, and allows me this freedom. He's truly glad I've found something that gives my life purpose."

 

"So you're saying such trust won't exist under my reign? That I'll bring war and bandits back into our lands?"

 

"Of course not," Chalon said gently. "I only mean that I don't want anyone speaking ill of Father's decisions."

 

"How dare a useless younger brother like you scold me!" Varius growled. "What can you even do?"

 

Chalon fell silent. Before this brother who twisted every word into insult and anger, he could say nothing.

 

Varius was exceptional in every way. His striking beauty was renowned across the continent. But despite his brilliance, he was also known for excessive hunting and delivering harsh punishments on a whim—behaviors that often troubled the king.

 

He wasn't entirely lawless; his actions were still within the bounds of what a crown prince could get away with. But for a king who abhorred bloodshed, a queen who had passed away, and a gentle brother like Chalon, Varius's nature seemed almost cruel.

 

To Varius, however, this kingdom of Aschenptel would one day be his. Whether he hunted beasts or punished troublesome people, it was his right. And when the king reprimanded him, it only angered him further—an anger that he sometimes took out on the weak or on helpless animals.

 

Because of that, Chalon often stayed close when he sensed his brother was in a foul mood.

 

No matter how much Varius scorned him, Chalon was royalty and would never be executed or shot at like some prey. He believed there was no better target for his brother's wrath than himself.

 

"…Hey. What's that blood?" Varius asked, eyes narrowing. "Did you get hurt in the forest?"

 

"Ah—"

 

Chalon had been wrestling with how to express both his desire for a peaceful future under his brother's reign and his own quiet wish to be of use to others, when suddenly his wrist was seized.

 

The stain hadn't been vivid enough to catch his own attention, but now he saw it—water-diluted blood soaked into the cuff of his wet shirt.

 

"Answer me! Are you hurt?"

 

"No… it's not my blood. In the forest, I came across an elderly gentleman who had fallen from his horse. He was injured, so I gave him treatment."

 

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